No Man's Nightingale by Ruth Rendell Page A

recipient couldn’t tell where they came from. He had never told her about Fiona or the cottage or even his mother’s death. He continued, ‘Let me know when you arrive in UK. I could meet you at Gatwick.’ It was the nearest London airport to Kingsmarkham and flights came in from Spain all the time. He didn’t want to have to go there, he never really wanted to go anywhere, but anything was preferable to having her turn up in Peck Road in a taxi. He didn’t end with ‘love’ or even ‘yours’ but simply ‘Jeremy’, put his finger on
send
and pressed.
    It seemed to him, though he could hardly have said why, that it would be careless of him just to ignore the house in Peck Road until he heard from Diane. He ought to be keeping an eye on it. He ought to go there even if he did nothing more than look. Jeremy’s life was generally calm and uneventful. His wants were catered for by Fiona, he was fed, his limited sexual needs were satisfied, no one interfered with his television watching or expected him to get up early or wear a tie or get his hair cut. He had never been a drinker, he didn’t like the taste, but when something happened to disturb the equilibrium of his existence he took a couple of swigs of strong spirits, brandy sometimes or, a recent discovery, grappa. That rare something had happened now and he swallowed a gulp or two of brandy straight from the bottle, shuddering afterwards at the taste.
    Fiona had gone to work in her car. Jeremy got into his, not deterred by having drunk what amounted to a wineglassful of brandy. It cheered him up and that was all that mattered. It moved him from a state of mild anxiety to something not far from one of his fugues. He sat in the driving seat, feeling calm and a bit sleepy but that passed after a few minutes and he was more than capable of driving over to the Muriel Campden Estate. Parked a short way down Peck Road, he had a clear view of Diane’s house. For some unknown reason, he had expected to find it changed by what had happened, as if its appearance might have been altered by her decision or as if it might not even be there any more. But it was just the same, even that cracked windowpane was still covered up in cardboard and sticky tape.
    There was no sign of Jason Sams or his wife, girlfriend, whatever she was, but the front door opened and Jason Sams’s mother came out with the little girl in a pushchair. How fast they grew, Jeremy thought rather gloomily. Last time he’d seen her she’d been a baby. Perhaps if Diane made them move out they would go and live with Mrs Sams. It would be cheaper. He drifted into a half-fugue, half-dream, in which Diane was handing over a cheque for a thousand pounds to Jason Sams to persuade him to leave and, inexplicably, thirty thousand to him, Jeremy, to put down a deposit on that house in Ladysmith Road.
    A pounding on the car window brought him to full consciousness. ‘You’re on Residents’ Parking,’ said an angry voice belonging to a bull-necked man with shaven head. ‘Get off outta here.’
    Jeremy obeyed in silence.
    It was one of their less successful lunches. For one thing, it was in a Japanese restaurant, and while Burden loved Japanese cuisine, Wexford, who had only had it once before, hated it, especially sushi. Burden, who had never been like this in the past, Wexford thought, once or twice told him how good for him it was.
    ‘I don’t believe anything you don’t like can be good for you.’
    Burden made no reply. After taking apart a square of sushi that looked to Wexford like a liquorice allsort, white and black with a green blob at its centre, he said that their visit to the Congolese people in Stowerton had been ‘a waste of time’.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know. I had a talk with Nardelie and I thought of going back there.’
    ‘Don’t bother. Lynn went back and no one could tell her anything. Several of them had been to St Peter’s but apart from shaking hands with her when the service was over,